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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28932123">so come a little closer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/obiter/pseuds/obiter'>obiter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Swap, Boys In Love, First Year Bokuto and Second Year Akaashi, Fukurodani loves its captain ok, Introspection, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:29:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28932123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/obiter/pseuds/obiter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi likes volleyball well enough, but it isn't until he meets Bokuto Koutarou, one of the team's new first-years, that maybe he starts to fall in love.</p><p>(Or, alternatively, Akaashi tries his best to resist Bokuto and fails.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so come a little closer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Akaashi likes volleyball well enough, but it tends to fall behind homework and reading for pleasure on his list of priorities. Besides, volleyball is, comparatively, far easier. The role of starting setter was handed to him after his predecessor graduated and there’s no one, not even in the projected new batch of first-years, who might compete with him for the job either. </p><p>So Akaashi takes full advantage of his break, stretches his fingers in between turning book pages.. He jogs in the morning and in the evening to maintain his stamina; he doesn’t want to be completely winded at the beginning of the season, not when the new Fukurodani captain has taken issue with his endurance in the past. </p><p>Akaashi skips the first-year training camp since none of the third-year leadership specifically asks him to show up. Thus, Akaashi strolls into the first morning practice of the new season and is surprised by the full gym that greets him after changing.</p><p>“Oh,” He says, coming to a stop by the vice-captain, Nakamura. The other student nods in greeting, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes focused at the three-on-three play that’s drawn so much attention. Akaashi recognizes only the captain, Sasaki. “The new first years are eager.”</p><p>“Washio, Konoha, Sarukui, Komi,” Nakamura pauses, working his jaw in silence for a long moment before he adds, “And Bokuto.”</p><p>From above them, the crowd cheers, undulating with the rapid-fire play on the court. Fukurodani is a powerhouse. The team marches to Nationals every year, easily. A crowd, even a huge one, with spectators spilling out of the seats, is normal. Cheers are expected. Akaashi’s played full games with no sensation of sound except the roar of the crowd.</p><p>But at 7 a.m., it’s all unheard of. Akaashi can feel the floor vibrate, and he steps forward to get a better look. He considers asking Nakamura which player is which. Who’s the first year with the dark hair, his taped-up fingers forming a wall against Sasaki’s spikes? Who’s the much-needed libero, rolling into neat digs and leaping to his feet in a single breath? There wasn’t an incoming setter, so who’s the boy tossing that nice, high toss? Who’s--</p><p>One boy rises above the rest, mouth parted, arms flung back as he takes to the air. The crowd rises with him, a single name chanted, the gymnasium suddenly too small to contain the cheers, the name, the boy whipping his arm forward. </p><p>
  <em> Bokuto, Bokuto, Bokuto-- </em>
</p><p>Akaashi thinks of meteors, of luminous falling stars, as the volleyball slams to the ground.</p><p>He walks closer.</p><p>“Hey hey hey!” The boy, Bokuto, cheers, somehow the sound of his voice reaching Akaashi through the clamor of the students above. Bokuto, when he finally touches the ground, immediately springs back into the air, arms thrown wide as he leaps to Sasaki. “Did you see Sasaki-san? Konoha, did you see that?”</p><p>Sasaki laughs, arms thrown wide to receive Bokuto. Never mind that Bokuto is easily a few centimeters taller, never mind that this is a 7 a.m. practice game, Sasaki lets Bokuto cling until the other first-year, Konoha, yanks him away and scolds him for bothering the captain. </p><p>The other first-years meander over, panting but grinning. Bokuto turns away from his adoring fans and to his classmates. </p><p>“We’re definitely going to win,” Bokuto shouts, hooking his arms around two of them. “Every single game. If we play like that, we’ll be unstoppable!”</p><p>“Bold words,” He says quietly. There’s no way Bokuto could’ve heard him, not over the din, not over his teammates, not when Akaashi is still several steps away. But Bokuto looks over, round-eyed and breathing through his mouth. “Do you really think it’s possible to play every match like that?”</p><p>Sasaki shakes his head, but he’s smirking. Akaashi’s a setter. He anchors the plays, makes those split-second decisions that are cruel to assign to others. They are his burden, and his burden keeps Akaashi honest. </p><p>The first-years stare at him, sweat dripping down their faces. Bokuto, flanked by his classmates, just stares at him for a moment before his mouth curls into a grin. </p><p>“Of course,” He boasts, planting his hands on his hips. Akaashi takes in the captain’s pose and successfully keeps his lips from twitching. “It might be hard, but why not? I could do it. I’m the best.”</p><p>“And we’re not too bad either,” adds the libero. He cocks his head back, meets Akaashi’s gaze with flashing eyes. </p><p>“They’re the best,” Bokuto says. He nods, once, and then two more times. “You’ll see.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Sasaki lets the first-years leave early after putting away the net and balls and directs the rest of the team to the weight room. </p><p>“You could make it less obvious that he’s your favorite,” Nakamura says in between squats. Akaashi watches him and Sasaki in the mirror as he does pull-ups. “You’re the captain.”</p><p>Sasaki, having changed into a fresh practice shirt, laughs. His face is still flush from the apparently impromptu three-on-three. “Come on, Nakkun. Doesn’t he make you feel young again?”</p><p>Nakamura gives a withering look and sets the bar back on its hooks. “He makes me exhausted. Besides, he won’t be so cute when he throws a fit during the first official game.”</p><p>“You think he’s cute?” Sasaki dodges the towel thrown his way.</p><p>“Watanabe’s little brother went to junior high with him. Apparently, he ran off the court mid-game and hid behind the vending machines because his spikes were all blocked.”</p><p>“That was junior high.”</p><p>Nakamaru points his water bottle at Sasaki. “You can mother him all day long, but if he pulls that shit with me on the court, I’m not going to put up with it.”</p><p>“Okay, okay, Nakkun.”</p><p>“I mean it,” Nakamura says. He looks at Akaashi. Sasaki rolls his eyes. “You too, Akaashi. If he pulls that shit with you, put him in his place.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Nakamura lasts exactly half of an afternoon practice before he folds like fresh linen under Bokuto’s delighted, “Wow wow wow, Nakkun-senpai, nice kill!”</p><p>“Shit, Bokuto,” Nakamura says, pushing away the excited first-year. “That was nothing, let me show you something really cool.”</p><p>And then he proceeds to do the same feint he’s done since his first game as a starter, grinning viciously when Sarukui and Washio stare up at him, the ball behind them and rolling away. Bokuto just gasps, wide-eyed.</p><p>Akaashi meets Sasaki’s eyes, feeling his own mouth curl up as Sasaki grins. </p><p>“It’s like hitting a good spike,” Nakamura says, puffing out his chest as Bokuto bobs around him, peering over his shoulder as Washio and Sarukui glower. “The moment they try to reach for the ball, miss, and then look up at you...it’s the best feeling.”</p><p>“Like hitting a good spike,” Bokuto repeats, a note of wonder in his voice before his mouth twists down. “I don’t know, Nakkun-senpai. Hitting a good spike is pretty great.”</p><p>“Yeah yeah, but this is good, too. Maybe not in the same way, but similar.” Nakamura waves him off and turns on his heel. “Come on, Bokuto. The set’s not over yet.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Bokuto’s built for movement, from his arched eyebrows to his lively mouth, and his body allows him to take ownership of the court. His feet take him from end to end, his forearms receive, his hands hoist him up as he dives for the ball. Akaashi watches him take to the sky when he serves, inhaling and only exhaling once he releases the ball from the cradle of his hand. </p><p>He moves, and the rest of the team follows. Alone, he takes the practice matches by storm, racking up points and building a name for himself. Bokuto Koutarou from Fukurodani. His reputation sets out a red carpet for the entire team to walk.</p><p>All the first-years see playing time, but Bokuto is on the court the longest. Akaashi sets to him, sees a flash of gold, and finds his body moving, arms steady, as Bokuto leaps.</p><p>One day, Bokuto leaps and Akaashi tosses, but the ball is stopped cold. Three blockers and one gets lucky.</p><p>“Oh,” Bokuto says, mouth pinching. “Once more!”</p><p>Twice more, he is blocked. Akaashi sees his broad shoulders curve in, sees the way he plucks at his jersey. He seems so small, but he still holds up a hand for Akaashi. He calls for a toss.</p><p>Bokuto hits the net.</p><p>For a moment, there is quiet, broken only by soft panting. Washio and Konoha exchange looks with each other and then, in unison, turn to Sasaki. Sasaki reaches for Bokuto, who is now trembling, face turned towards the floor.</p><p>“Bokuto, hey--”</p><p>Bokuto throws himself out of reach, eyes screwed shut. “Don’t toss to me, anymore, Akashi-san!”</p><p>“It’s Akaashi,” Akaashi says, watching as Bokuto presses his clenched fists to his eyes. His entire face is a study in agony, his body a play in torment. It’s their first official match, but it’s only a game. Bokuto turns back to Sasaki for comfort, and the captain can only look up at the ceiling to avoid the other team’s bewilderment. </p><p>“Come on, Bokuto,” Sasaki says, patting his back. He blinks at the ceiling, his ears red.  “Everyone has an off day. Just, try to get it together.”</p><p>Akaashi stares. He looks at the coach, who seems content to let this tragicomedy play out, and then at Nakamura, who just looks so concerned, biting his thumbnail on the sidelines, and then back at the coach. Bokuto is 15 years old, 185 centimeters, and a starter of Fukurodani Volleyball Club. He’s beyond being cosseted and coddled like a child king. He should be sent to the sidelines, but no numbers go up. Sarukui remains with the other non-regulars, watching this all play out. </p><p>The referee clears his throat. Akaashi makes a decision.</p><p>“Fine.” Sasaki finally looks at him. Bokuto peeks out from the crook of Sasaki’s neck. “I won’t toss to you again, so use this time to calm down.”</p><p>Akaashi nods at Sasaki, then the referee. Then he gets into position.</p><p>. . . </p><p>Bokuto drifts, knees slightly bent, hands held out uselessly. But he stays out of the way, lets Konoha score and then Washio. The other team begins to ignore him, and soon Bokuto’s agonized expression gives way. Akaashi watches him, and Bokuto looks back with rapid little blinks. He shifts from one foot to another, and so Akaashi looks at Sasaki.</p><p>Sasaki grins. He pops the ball to Akaashi, a neat little toss that Akaashi sets gratefully.</p><p>“Bokuto,” Akaashi says, simply, quietly, and like that first time, Bokuto tunes in to his voice, already rising to meet Akaashi’s challenge. Everything slows, Akaashi just watches, until Bokuto slams down on the ball, and then the world explodes into noise. Bokuto lands flat on his feet and tosses his head back. </p><p>Akaashi looks at the line of his throat. His heart pounds.</p><p>They win.</p><p>. . . </p><p>Akaashi watches Bokuto often. It’s hard not to, not when Bokuto throws his entire being into everything, whether it’s a diving drill or simply entering the room. While he’s loud, he also demands attention in quiet little ways. Fingers hooked into Yukippe’s jacket pocket, his lips quirking when she smiles  and asks if he wants a juice box. A cheek pressed to Konoha’s hair when Coach’s post-practice instructions stretch too long, an arm thrown over Komi’s shoulders. He hooks his arms with Washio and Sarukui as they walk to the bus. </p><p>Akaashi watches all these interactions, all these little ways Bokuto carves a cozy little space for himself within the team. He seeks them all out, one by one, collecting little acts of affection like a magpie. </p><p>But Bokuto hesitates with him. His smiles are a little more cautious. Although he’s quick to chatter with his classmates or give nicknames to his upperclassmen, Bokuto is quiet with him. He bites his lip and nods, looks at Akaashi through his lashes even though Akaashi is only a little shorter. </p><p>“Washio is only one blocker,” Akaashi says, “In an actual match, you will have to beat three.”</p><p>Bokuto immediately curls in on himself. “You’re right, you’re right,” He mumbles, tugging at his dark blue practice shirt. He turns away, still pouting and dragging his feet as he gets back in line for the drill.</p><p>The team looks at him. Akaashi looks back.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Akaashi is an only child of two working parents. He took the bus by himself in elementary school and learned to cook at around the same age. Once his parents were aware of his self-sufficiency, they let his nanny go and trusted Akaashi to behave.</p><p>So when he overhears Bokuto complain that his parents are on another business trip and that he has to go to the grocery store and that going to the grocery store will take away from his spiking practice, maybe he’ll just buy a bunch of noodles and curry bread--</p><p>Akaashi finishes changing, slams his locker shut, and turns to Bokuto.</p><p>“Fried rice,” he says into the silence of the club room, “is easy and quick. Don’t you have a rice cooker?”</p><p>Bokuto blinks at him, still in the process of peeling off his long compression sleeves. He quirks his head. “I think so. Maybe.”</p><p>“Shit, Bokuto,” Konoha mutters, shaking his head. But he’s grinning, despite the threat of malnutrition his teammate faces. Sarukui and Komi and Washio seem similarly unconcerned.</p><p>It occurs to Akaashi, then, that he will be the oldest member of the team in just a few short months. Soon, there will be no Sasaki to wrangle Bokuto, no Nakamura to distract him on long bus rides. Akaashi has grown soft and complacent, letting his upperclassmen shepherd Bokuto along a somewhat straight path. He’s lazy, letting his underclassmen babysit Bokuto when they themselves are still fumbling towards maturity. </p><p>Akaashi sighs and picks up his school satchel. “I have to buy some milk,” He says blandly. When Bokuto just blinks at him, Akaashi says more clearly, “Let’s go to the store together.”</p><p>. . .</p><p>He buys Bokuto microwave-ready rice in case he doesn’t have a rice cooker (which is, honestly, unthinkable but Akaashi’s strength is his ability to plan) as well as rotisserie chicken and eggs. He buys carrots and bananas, tells Bokuto to eat at least one of each every day.</p><p>“I’ll know if you don’t,” He warns, putting away his wallet while Bokuto just stares at him, a little frightened. He’s biting his lip again, and Akaashi wants to pinch him. He shakes his head. “Put the rice and chicken in a pan and crack an egg on top. Cook until the egg cooks.”</p><p>“Can I stir it?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>"Can I add salt?"</p><p>"You should."</p><p>“Okay, but what kind of pan?”</p><p>Akaashi goes home with him and cooks the damn fried rice himself.</p><p>(Thankfully, Bokuto has a rice cooker.)</p><p>. . . </p><p>After the Fried Rice Incident, Bokuto warms up to him. Albeit, slowly.</p><p>“Akashi-senpai,” Bokuto says, quiet and meek and bashful. “Will you stay after practice for me, just for a lil bit?”</p><p>Bokuto is neither quiet nor meek nor bashful, yet Akaashi still finds himself caught on the way he digs the tip of his volleyball shoes into the gym floor and looks through his lashes while waiting for Akaashi to reply. </p><p>“It’s Akaashi,” says Akaashi. “Akaashi. And why?”</p><p>“I want to practice spiking,” Bokuto says, as though he doesn’t already have one of the nastiest spikes Akaashi has seen up close. Bokuto mimes a hit, his arm sweeping above. “Besides, your tosses are better than Konoha’s. Yours are the best.”</p><p>Akaashi Isn't weak to flattery. Really. But he’s a good upperclassman, and he’s already cooked dinner for Bokuto once. Now that he’s seen Bokuto’s inexperience and the limits of his maturity, Akaashi understands his role better.</p><p>Bokuto will be his responsibility once Sasaki and Nakamura leave, so it would be best to inoculate himself now against Bokuto. Surely nothing will test him as the fried rice did, but Akaashi’s strength is preparation. </p><p>“Only for half an hour,” Akaashi offers. “I have a mathematics quiz tomorrow.”</p><p>“I hate math,” Bokuto exclaims. “And I think it hates me, too. Don’t worry, Akaashi-senpai, I won’t keep you late.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Half an hour turns into an hour, and soon the sun has set and Akaashi aches from the base of his neck to his heels. He stretches, feeling his joints pop into place, and accepts the water bottle Bokuto refilled for him.</p><p>“Volleyball is way better than math,” Bokuto says, cheeks still flushed. Up close, Akaashi can see he has soft grey eyelashes, they make his eyes look even bigger, and the realization makes Akaashi’s breath hitch. “Don’t you think so, Akaashi?”</p><p>Or maybe that’s just the extra two hours of practice Akaashi somehow did.</p><p>He squints at Bokuto, who’s tipping his head entirely back so he can squirt water into his mouth. The other boy is so simple that he probably didn’t intend to keep Akaashi so late and, even so, it’s not his fault because Akaashi lost track of time, more interested in Bokuto’s easy delight than the homework waiting in his bag.</p><p>“But that last spike,” Bokuto says, chest still heaving. “Wasn’t that one the best? I think it was better than the one before. Definitely better than the first.” He looks at Akaashi, waits. </p><p>“They were all good.”</p><p>“Even the 14th?”</p><p>“That one could have been better,” Akaashi concedes with a small smile. “But it still wasn’t bad.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>The post-practice practice is what does it, and soon Akaashi can’t avoid Bokuto enough.</p><p>“Don’t you usually have lunch with Konoha and the others?” Akaashi’s nose twitches at the yakisoba bread in Bokuto’s hands. </p><p>“They’re studying for a literature quiz.” Bokuto shrugs, licking his lips. His eyes are gleaming, and Akaashi almost feels guilty for considering throwing away Bokuto’s cafeteria food and forcing him to share Akaashi’s bento instead. He imagines that grilled chicken won’t spark the same joy in Bokuto as yakisoba bread.</p><p>Instead, Akaashi slides Bokuto a napkin. “Doesn’t that mean you have a literature quiz as well?”</p><p>Bokuto manages a sheepish look, a noodle and sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth. “Mmph.”</p><p>“Perhaps you should also be studying.” He pushes the napkin until Bokuto finally takes it. “Or are you better at literature than math?”</p><p>“Akaashi,” Bokuto whines, squeezing the bread in his hands. A noodle falls onto Akaashi’s desk. One of his classmates looks scandalized at Bokuto’s impudence, the lack of respect when he whines Akaashi’s name. Akaashi’s never been one for hierarchies, and he doesn’t want to go back to the time when Bokuto flinched every time he spoke. “Math is hard and boring.”</p><p>“And literature?”</p><p>“It’s fun! It’s full of heroes and travels and wise owls, and you don’t have to follow what the book says, you can make it into your own.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>Bokuto finishes the bread in three bites, wiping his fingers on his tie before remembering the napkin. “Like how sometimes a sunset is sad because the day has ended and your chances are gone. Or sometimes a sunset is happy because it means a bad day is finished and a new one will come. Or sometimes a sunset can just be a sunset.” Bokuto leans back, as though he’s made a fine argument. His eyebrows arch up, and Akaashi humors him. “Tell me I’m right, Akaashi.”</p><p>“You’re not wrong, Bokuto.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Somehow, suddenly, Bokuto and volleyball rise up his priority list. Of course, Akaashi still completes his homework and he maintains his class rank, but he writes a little faster, reads for pleasure on the weekends instead of on the bus or before bed. He lets Bokuto study with him, tutors him in math, and only brings in snacks when Bokuto finishes every problem.</p><p>“Maybe we can take a break,” Bokuto suggests, nibbling the carrot sticks Akaashi set out. He’s stopped sulking at the sight of vegetables because he knows Akaashi will send him home with something sweet. Today is a special treat, little owl-shaped cookies with royal icing feathers that Akaashi saw in the new bakery on the way to his house. He can see the pleasure on Bokuto’s face already, but to give in now would set a bad precedent. “Just for a lil bit. An hour, maybe.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Akaashi replies. He looks over Bokuto’s homework and marks which problems are incorrect. He smiles when Bokuto only misses six out of twenty-five. “Good job, Bokuto.” </p><p>Bokuto lights up. He pushes the plate of carrots away. “So I can have dessert early?”</p><p>Akaashi smiles a little wider. “Absolutely not. Take out your literature assignment.”</p><p>Bokuto sulks and pulls the carrots back to him. “You're a tyrant.” He glances at Akaashi from the corner of his eye. </p><p>“Yes, you used that word correctly.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>“Bokuto,” Akaashi says softly, squatting next to the vending machines. In the narrow space between the two is Bokuto. How he managed such a feat, with his broad shoulders and height, Akaashi doesn’t know. </p><p>Bokuto looks up from his knees, his golden eyes glinting in the dusk. “Akaashi,” He says softly. “Are you mad?”</p><p>Akaashi sighs. “No one is mad at you.”</p><p>“I couldn’t get through the blockers.” Bokuto wipes at his nose with his wrist. “They blocked all of my crosses. I played bad.”</p><p>“No, the other team just played better,” Akaashi corrects him. He keeps his voice gentle, soft, but still, Bokuto flinches. “That doesn’t mean that you played bad, or that anyone else played bad.”</p><p>He thinks about Konoha chasing after him through campus, mouth unsteady as he admitted that none of them could find Bokuto. He thinks about the open frustration on Washio’s face as the spikes broke through his hands. He thinks about Komi diving after each ball and swearing under his breath when the exhaustion slowed him down. He thinks about Sarukui kicking his locker, his normally easy-going demeanor brittle. </p><p>Akaashi thinks about Bokuto, his tears mixing with his sweat, demanding toss after toss, something desperate in his eyes as he tries to keep up even as the win slips further out of hand.</p><p>“Hey, Bokuto.” He waits until Bokuto looks at him again. “Let’s practice, just for a little bit.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Akaashi’s exhausted, dehydrated, and completely unprepared for his history test. </p><p>But Bokuto asks for another toss--<em> just one more time, Akaashi </em>--so Akaashi grits his teeth and sets the ball, watches as Bokuto rises to meet it and sends it straight, the slap of it hitting the ground echoing in time to the rush of blood in Akaashi’s ears. </p><p>Bokuto grins, his collar dark with sweat. He lands on his ass, legs trembling, and Akaashi rushes to help him up, but Bokuto just laughs. He turns his face up to Akaashi and says, “We’re not going to lose again.”</p><p>And Akaashi, despite the impossibility, believes him.</p><p>. . . </p><p>It rains after practice, fast and hard, and Bokuto whoops, runs past Akaashi’s hand and headlong into the storm.</p><p>“At least he won’t get sick,” Konoha says with a mean little grin that’s reserved just for Bokuto’s antics. “Idiots don’t catch colds.”</p><p>Shirofuku smirks at him. “But they do complain about wet socks and whine until their only teammate with similarly sized feet shares his extra socks.”</p><p>Konoha swears, planting his hands on his hips and looking down at his shoes. “I’m gonna tell him no.”</p><p>“Like you did the last two times.” Sarukui shares a smirk with Komi. </p><p>In the distance, Bokuto, jacketless now, slips on the wet grass and crashes in a heap. Akaashi counts down from ten.</p><p>“Akaashi,” Bokuto wails, trying to get to his feet and failing. The rain falls harder.</p><p>Akaashi pulls out his umbrella. “Geez.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Sasaki gets injured during a match and Bokuto almost follows him off the court, expression lost and unfocused. Akaashi yanks him back into position and snaps, “Bokuto, your fans are watching. Let’s play our best for them.”</p><p>“But Sasaki,” Bokuto warbles. He catches Akaashi’s hand. “Is he okay?”</p><p>Sasaki had to be helped off the court. He couldn’t put weight on his left ankle. Akaashi knows Bokuto noticed. But Bokuto’s holding Akaashi’s hand and looking at him through his lashes and--</p><p>Bokuto’s hand is just a little smaller than his. Akaashi breathes out. He focuses.</p><p>“Don’t you think a win will make him feel better?” Bokuto nods and Akaashi squeezes his hand. “You’re right, Bokuto. Let’s win this for Sasaki.” He looks at the rest of the shell-shocked team.</p><p>They look at Bokuto. They wait.</p><p>Bokuto looks at Akaashi.</p><p>“For Sasaki.” He nods. He raises his head, sets his jaw, and looks at his teammates. He stands a little taller. “For Sasaki,” Bokuto repeats, louder, shooting one fist skywards. </p><p>The team follows. They win.</p><p>. . . </p><p>Bokuto is named captain and nearly throws a fit. Akaashi stops him from climbing on top of a locker.</p><p>“Bokuto, calm down.” Bokuto refuses and tries even harder to crawl up metal. He's about to pull himself up when Akaashi yanks him. “Bokuto, I told them to make you captain.”</p><p>Bokuto falls, and he falls on Akaashi.</p><p>“But why?” Bokuto’s voice cracks. “I know I’m the best and I’ll be the best captain, but you, Akaashi, you---”</p><p>“You’re a brat,” Akaashi tells him. Bokuto crumples, sending his knee deeper into Akaashi’s kidney. “But everyone loves you, and you make this team better.”</p><p>“But you make me better,” Bokuto says softly. “Which is really amazing because I’m already pretty great.”</p><p>Akaashi wants to touch him. He settles for moving Bokuto’s knee out of his kidney. <em> I want to make a path for you</em>, Akaashi thinks, <em> I want to see you soar</em>.</p><p>“You make me better, too.” His hand lingers on Bokuto’s knee. “We’re going to go to Nationals, Bokuto. We’re going to win every game.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>His classmates whisper and give him curious looks, but Akaashi’s not going to stop Bokuto from visiting his homeroom just because a few second-years think it’s strange for an underclassman to admire an upperclassman.</p><p>“I mean, it’s a little strange, Akaashi-kun,” says Fuji, who sits behind him. Akaashi gives him a cool, narrow look and stays quiet until the boy’s cheeks go red. “And I heard they made him captain. Are you really okay with that?”</p><p>“Bokuto is my captain, my teammate, and he is going to lead us to Nationals for another year in a row,” Akaashi says sharply. “When was the last time the baseball team even made it out of the province?”</p><p>“Oi, watch it Akaashi--”</p><p>“Akaashi!” Bokuto bounds in, nearly knocking over the class representative and then bowing deep in apology. “Akaashi, let’s eat outside. I made lunch!”</p><p>Akaashi stands. “Bokuto, putting store-bought onigiri in a bento doesn’t count.”</p><p>“I know! So I didn’t do that.” Bokuto holds up his bento like a trophy. “I made fried rice for us! I even picked out the eggshells and remembered to add salt.”</p><p>“It already sounds edible.”</p><p>Maybe Akaashi kicks Fuji’s desk as he walks away. But he’s not going to apologize for having an underclassman who admires him. It’s not strange. It’s not improper. </p><p>It’s just Bokuto.</p><p>. . . </p><p>Nakamura tells him to take care of Bokuto, to be gentle with him. Sasaki rolls his eyes and retorts, “You went out of your way to be a dick to him, Nakkun-senpai.” He dodges Nakamura’s kick and instead ruffles Akaashi’s hair. </p><p>“We know you’ll take good care of Bokuto,” Sasaki says. “You like him.”</p><p>Only with a little exasperation, because his upperclassmen are graduating, Akaashi sighs, “Just because I don’t coddle him like you, doesn’t mean I’m cruel to him. He’s tolerable.”</p><p>Sasaki doesn’t even hide his grin. Nakamura snorts. “Of course, Akaashi. You don’t coddle him at all.” </p><p>“You don’t coax him out from under the water table--”</p><p>“You don’t chase after him in the rain--”</p><p>“You don’t help him stretch--”</p><p>“You didn’t buy him that tacky t-shirt at Nationals--”</p><p>“Enough,” Akaashi mutters. His face feels hot. “Go say goodbye to the rest of the team.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Bokuto doesn’t cry, but he does cling to Sasaki and keeps his fingers tangled in Nakamura’s jersey for just a second too long. But he’s clear-eyed and dry-faced, and he sends the new third-years to do diving drills and the new second-years to the weight room. </p><p>To Akaashi, he turns. “Help me stretch?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>Somehow they drift closer together. As spiker and setter, Akaashi knows they were destined to be close. Akaashi knows Bokuto’s favorite kind of toss. Bokuto knows exactly where Akaashi expects him to be during a game. Their leadership roles keep them tethered, but sometimes Akaashi wonders if he was always meant to be tied this tight to Bokuto. </p><p>They fold into each other. Bokuto drapes over his shoulders while he fills out requisition forms and suggests that the clubroom needs a vending machine (“Have you seen how much Yukippe eats? Akaashi, it’s astounding!” “Well said, Bokuto.”) or maybe a fridge (“Who will clean the fridge?” “Washio.”).</p><p>Akaashi watches Bokuto’s moods on the court and becomes faster at finding the best course of action to take to draw back his mood and confidence.</p><p>They keep pace with each other, even if it sometimes feels that Akaashi will one day lose sight of Bokuto. After all, he is a third-year now and he will graduate and leave Bokuto. And Bokuto will keep going and going.</p><p>One day Bokuto will be out of reach.</p><p>One day...</p><p>“Your spikes are the best, Akaashi,” Bokuto says with a broad smile. His gaze gets a little imperious when Akaashi thanks him. “Now, do it again, but even better.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>They’re on the bus to training camp when Bokuto climbs over two rows and nearly kicks Onaga in the head trying to get to Akaashi. </p><p>“Bokuto, please, the season has barely started,” Akaashi sighs, sliding off his headphones. “And for the last time, please don’t play truth or dare with Kuroo this year.”</p><p>“Akaashi, I have to,” Bokuto says breathlessly. Somewhere in his crawl over the seats, he lost his jacket. “For Fukurodani’s honor, I can’t back down from a dare.”</p><p>“You’re allergic to bees.” In Kuroo’s defense, he hadn’t known that and looked terribly guilty when Bokuto started gasping and grabbing for Akaashi’s hand. He had even let Bokuto win their next eating contest. “Please stay out of the forest this time.”</p><p>Bokuto nods and then catches himself. He scowls. “Akaashi, don’t distract me with your grudge against Kuroo. I came here for a reason. An important one.”</p><p>“And I’m glad you did. I wanted to remind you not to risk your life for a stupid dare.” Bokuto glares and Akaashi relents. “Fine, what’s the reason?”</p><p>“Do you love me?” </p><p>Akaashi blinks. Someone on the bus wheezes and someone else--definitely Konoha--goes <em> of all the times, Bo-- </em></p><p>“Uh,” Akaashi blinks again. Bokuto leans in. “Oh.”</p><p>Bokuto’s shoulders hunch a little. He bites his lip before continuing. “Because I remember when I became captain, you told me that I was a brat, but everyone loved me and I wanted to know if that included you.”</p><p>“Isn’t it obvious?” Akaashi’s strength is his ability to plan ahead, to see every path and then choose the best one. But his useless brain has stalled and his useless mouth won’t form words, and the only thing he can make out is Bokuto, looking at him through his grey eyelashes. “I thought it was obvious.”</p><p>Bokuto just looks at him, and then he smiles, slow and pleased. Akaashi wants to touch him, so he does and Bokuto turns his face into Akaashi’s hand, nuzzling his palm. “I want to win every game with you, Akaashi.”</p><p>If it’s Bokuto, and if it’s him, Akaashi thinks it’s possible. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1. I could write Akaashi trying to avoid falling in love with Bokuto and failing over and over and never get bored. </p><p>2. I create new characters specifically to have more people love and support Bokuto.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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